Fifty Shades of Twilight
by NoNameMcGee
Summary: Three things are absolutely certain: Annabelle and Christopher will stay with you forever, and ever, and ever, and ever in FIFTY SHADES OF TWILIGHT - A PARODY. Oh wait, that's not really three things.
1. Prologue

I'd never given much thought as to how I would live without him – though I'd had reasons to in the past few days.

_What is it about him? _I have to wonder to myself as to why this man could be so beautiful, intoxicating even. He was so beautiful and rich and sexy, yet he wanted…me.

My heart jumps a leap at the thought of his name. Where was he? I walk around the apartment, not even thinking about the coffee I'm holding. I'm thirsty…but not for ten pound Earl Grey tea from Tesco—wait, sorry, I meant Walmart. I'm thirsty for something else. I feel like someone. Like him. Like Christopher Grey-Gray. Like. Sex. Like sex with Christopher Grey-Gray.

I stare at the mug intensely, my dull eyes penetrating it, but not in the same way Christopher's gray eyes would blaze. It's the one he gave me for our one-week anniversary, alongside the villa in Versailles and the first edition of the Bible. I let out a half-hearted giggle and sigh. I want to fuck him…hard.

I let out a breathy sigh and he notices it. I turn around to see him staring there, watching me with a sexy grin, his gray eyes blistering… _Oh my._

"Why aren't you in bed yet?" he murmurs, gray eyes scorching as he speaks with his honey-velvet voice.

My Inner Goddess does an excited tap dance as the words come from his mouth. My Subconscious faints. My Unconscious peeks out from behind her leather plated diamond sofa. She's too nervous to speak.

"I am," I murmur back.

"Good," he murmurs, grinning a wicked grin, and turns around.

I blush magenta and I start to follow him, and he chuckles mysteriously yet inexplicably indecipherable; the sound echoing all the way _down there_. I walk out of the kitchenette which has three gray fridges, a green toaster and an Armani-plated leather table and follow him down the narrow hallway and watch the gray walls, with the pictures of flamenco dancers, and the plush gray carpet tickles at my feet. I want him. _Oh my_.

The bedroom only has a bed in it—an ultra-modern expensive one that only billionaires can buy. The wood is nice and clean with only seventy pairs of cuffs on the headboard, thirty three chokers, and the sheets are gray. Everything is gray except the wallpaper, the color matching my blush. I want him inside me.

My Inner Goddess looks around the room for me, since I so want to see him. I'm practically doing the samba…or at least my unconscious is as she takes a break and I tap my feet, and hum out _Tiptoe Through the Tulips._

"Anna," he murmurs…touching me suddenly…from behind.

I turn around, and smile at _him_. "Mr Grey-Gray," I murmur.

And then he fucks me…hard. I'm not very good at descriptions, but what I do recall is that he pulls out his gray foil packet, and his gray eyes never leave mine—_oh my_, his fifty shades of sexy face, it shows absolutely no emotion as his mouth pouts into an 'O'. He won't let me look at him, even when he hits me on the behind seven times, and I peek out from beneath my lashes at him and literally roll my eyes. He's so bossy! He makes me count every time. So…_hot_! Holy cow, Christopher is hot. Or is it holy _crow_? I never know these things.

"One," I murmur.

"Two," I whisper softly.

"Three," I mutter.

"Four," I groan.

"Five," I murmur loudly.

"Six," I notate.

"Seven," I infer.

He tells me to look at him, which I haven't had the chance to do until this moment so I stare into those blazing gray eyes. I can't tell what he's thinking—even though his perfect Adonis lips are curved into a straight wide thin line and his gray eyes are still blazing like they are Icarus flying too close to the sun. He touches me on the shoulder and I feel it down _there_…my body twisting with a carnal, incarnate longing. He moves his perfect godlike arm across to Rosie's necklace…so tantalizingly slowly…it's so…erotic. His gray eyes never leave mine.

He smiles at me in a friendly way as he saunters forward to ask me…_yet again_…if I'm hungry. He's contractually obliged to do this once a chapter.

That ought to count for something.


	2. Chapter One

I scowl with frustration at myself in the mirror. Damn myself for being so ugly, and damn myself for having ivory skin and a fat face and ugly brown eyes when I've lived in California and Arizona for most of my life, and most of all, damn myself for using the word 'damn' when I'm a Mormon and I really should be using 'dang'. I try to brush my hair, but it keeps knotting and unknotting and unfurling…it's so unfair.

My hair is refusing to look semi-presentable, and I'm meant to start of the University of Washington, Forks campus, today. I suppose I should still be in Arizona, helping my mom bake mudpies—oh, wait, that was another childhood memory, with that ugly Spanish kid, Jose—or at least cook and live, but she's got Bob and Phil now. She only had Phil when I left, the amazing Minor League baseball dreamboat that he is, but they had their honeymoon on the Mormon camp in Jacksonville, and she couldn't keep her eyes off Bob. It's lucky I've got my father Charlie and his partner Ray here in Forks. I really got all the luck, being stuck with my father while my mom is off with her two husbands, but I have to do this. I don't deserve to live in the reservation in Arizona; I'm such an ugly kid, and as I look at myself in the mirror again, I'm wondering how I got the ugly gene. It wasn't my fault I was so thin, and my face was heart shaped, and my eyes changed from boring brown to lackluster blue for no reason. I'm not going to fit in at Forks any more that I fit in at Arizona, even though Jose used to flirt with me with mudpies. He was so ugly.

I'd keep staring at myself in the mirror, to contemplate how I'm going to make friends when there are 75,000 people on campus, when Ray's daughter Katherine-Rosalie walks in on me. Rosie is one of the most beautiful girls in the Pacific Northwest; she's blond, thin, and very, very sexy. She's also dating Mike Weber, the sexiest man on campus, and that's saying a lot, because I assume most of the boys in Forks are dull as dishwater and ugly to boot.

"Annabelle," Rosie murmurs. "I'm so sorry. I've got a date with Mike, and it took me nine months to book the reservation at Newton's Olympic Outfitters. It will take another six to reschedule, and we'll be in diapers by then. As the leader of UW's Slut Club, I can't blow this off. Please," she begs in her soft, raspy voice. I'm so jealous. How can Rosie get all the good looks when her father looks like a horse? How does she do it? Compared to me, the goat, she looks gamine and gorgeous; her strawberry blond hair is perfect and her green eyes are perfect, and her breasts are perky and at least three cup sizes bigger than mine.

"Of course," I reply, sniggering at her use of 'diapers'. Despite her perfect GPA of 1.7, Rosie could say the silliest things. She wasn't verbose, not like me.

I sigh. "I know nothing about Forks," I say, mostly to myself, because Rosie has rushed into the bathroom and locked me out.

At least I have my questions to get me through; the Frequently Asked Questions that Bob helped print out from the reservation's library. I'm not sure how he used the print thing; it sounded very confusing, especially when he tried to describe the "E-Mail" and a fancy screen called a Web-Site. Frankly, it was quite exhausting. He then told me that you can read Jane Austen and Dante on there, and I was excited, but I don't know how you can. I suppose I can prop my edition of _Pride and Prejudice_ across the screen. It doesn't look like it will fit, though.

I gather my backpack from beside the bathroom door, smile wryly at the door, then head out the door to the car—my VW pickup truck, John, who's quite attractive for a vehicle from the 1920s. I cannot believe I talked myself into going to Forks…damn my Inner Goddess for wanting colder pastures, damn my subconscious for complaining about the Mormon reservation, and damn my unconscious for wanting to get away from mom, Bob and Phil. I liked Phil. He was very friendly to me when I was twelve. Oh well, Phil can talk anyone into anything. He's articulate, strong, persuasive, argumentative, beautiful—my favorite of mom's eight husbands—and it makes me sad that I left Arizona to visit the coldest place in the Olympic Peninsula of northwest Washington State, in a place named Forks that exists under a near-constant cover of clouds, where it rains on this inconsequential town more than any other place in the United States of America, where I don't know why I was escaping the warmth and homeliness of Arizona to hang out with beautiful, unconventional Godless people…but I still drive to school with the windows rolled down in the seventy-five degree cloudless blue, very strange Forks day. I wear a parka, sweating the whole way.


	3. Chapter Two

The roads are clear as I set off from the ugly double storey house that I share with Charlie, Ray and Rosie. It's raining uncontrollably, but it's still a perfect seventy-five degree day, and of course my day is ruined because I need to stay pale to attract hundred year old vampires. Fortunately, the parka offers itself up as a buffer, since John doesn't have air-bags, and it doesn't bother me that I hit three Audis on my way to the campus. Oh, John is a fun ride, and he's sexy to boot, a lot like Phil. I floor the pedal to the medal, cruising along to the tunes of Henry Hall belting out from my Walkman.

My destination is the University of Washington, Forks campus, which is a huge fifty-storey building that looks more like an office building, all gray steele. I arrive at a quarter to seven, two hours before my class starts. I like to be early, and I haven't finished reading _Twilight_ yet, which is the preferred reading for my Literature class. I'm disappointed because I've never actually read a book published after 1900—they're so lackluster and hogwash—I feel like white trash just with the book in my backpack. Back in high school, they forced us to read Fitzgerald for an exam, and I had to pretend I read the book when I really did the Godless act of copying Jose's work. It didn't really matter, since he was so eager to give his notes to me.

I'm greatly relieved I'm here so early, and I hope I'll find someone like Jose. The school is so steely gray, nothing like the beautiful meadow in the reservation where I used to sleep with Phil. I park right in front of the steel sandstone doors, and survey the grayness.

I walk into the white sandstone lobby, and look behind the solid sandstone desk, at a woman who looks like she's made of pure sandstone. She smiles at me, but she's blond, and blonds are incredibly vain and ugly. She wears a tank top and shorts and I immediately feel overdressed. Holy crow, those blonds like intimidating me! Two can play this game. I strip out of my parka, leaving me only in a bra and panties. They're my favorite panties, I must admit, with their roaring flamingo-pink cheetahs.

"I'm here to start my degree in English Literature," I whisper to the blond. "Annabelle Swan-Steele."

I feel embarrassed saying my name. Damn my parents for divorcing and damn me for having an ugly hyphenated name. I feel like Icarus flying too close to the sun.

"You have a map don't you, Miss Steele?" the blond murmurs dryly.

I nod enthusiastically. Sometimes blonds could be smart too.

"Please use that to find your first class," she continues. "And I'd recommend you wear that parka."

I grin back at her. I win this time, Stepford Blond! _Oh my_, I win this time. I get to wear the parka, and I didn't even have to _ask _to wear the parka. This is so exciting! I'm starting to like Forks already.

I have made an effort today in choosing the bra and panties, and it disappoints me to have to put the parka back on again. It makes me look so boring; there's no way I'll stand out against the sexy women at the university. I walk past the security guard, a black man with an afro. I imagine him listening to disco music, looking like that black man from that black movie. Even the security guard isn't ugly, unlike ugly me.

I don't fit in here at all. _Nothing changes_. I inwardly sigh, thank the security guard in a mocking way, and walk over to the bank of elevators. I outwardly sigh, but it's not as pretty as inwardly sighing, and I know that Rosie would be able to both inwardly and outwardly sigh in a much sexier way than me. I wish I could floor the pedal to the medal when I get to the elevators, but I know how elevators work—they need space to take off and land.

The elevator whisks me at terminal velocity to the thirteenth floor, and I feel uncomfortable, because if I go too high, I'll reach God, and mom said that I'm too young to go to him. Luckily, I don't go too high, and I'm alive and not airborne when I walk out of the elevator. It's an exhilarating experience; I wish I could go back up and down, but I only have an hour until class starts, and I still haven't looked at _Twilight_ yet.


	4. Chapter Three

The room that greets me is a room of both sandstone and gray steel—or is it steele, I never remember. I make my way to the leather chairs, and behind them is a spacious glass-walled meeting room with an equally spacious dark wood table and matching chairs. I can see the Seattle skyline, which amazes me because we're nowhere near Seattle. At least, I don't think we're near Seattle. Maybe I did go up to heaven and then back down when I took the elevator. It unnerves me, but luckily the view of Seattle's skyline is stunning, looking towards the Sound; the night sky a stunning vista, paralyzing me literally. Wow, it's so hot.

I sit down, fishing those morose Frequently Asked Questions from my backpack, as well as the tattered copy of _Twilight_. I like my books to look tattered, because they look well read, and then people will think I'm smart. Smart people read books, don't they? I'm smart, but I wouldn't read this book; it was published a mere ten years ago. It's _new_. Ew!

I like books where I know nothing about them, especially if they are one hundred and thirty years or a hundred and ninety years old. I've never been comfortable reading newer books, as the pages don't have that intoxicating old book smell, the feel that no-one else has read the brilliant _Futility, or the Wreck of the Titan_. It's my favorite book, especially the incredibly sexy Titan. He's an Adonis to my heart, and only John could come a close second. To be honest, I prefer my own company over spending time with John, because I feel uncomfortable with others, preferring the anonymity of group discussion where I can ponder the attractiveness of the Titan, and wonder how if he'd survived, would he have fallen in love with his other beautiful friend from 1912, the one there are rumors he predicted the tale of. _Oh my_! I prefer British novels especially, but my mom once gave me a tale on the Norwegian leather industry, and it was quite frankly fascinating. I especially don't like sitting in gray steel buildings, reading a 'book' that is a mere ten years old. It makes me actually feel my age, which leaves me twitching nervously endlessly.

I roll my eyes at myself. _Get a grip, Steele_. Or is that steel? I tell the walls to get a room, because quite frankly, they are too gray. I wonder if my professor will like books from the 1890s, or will he be a simple beatnik, liking modern literature. I laugh outwardly at his, hoping for a replacement if such a nightmare ever occurred. I have a habit of holding in such repressed memories.

Another elegant, flawlessly dressed blond comes out of the elevator, looking immaculate, yet another Stepford blond to add to the collection. I quickly look down at the 'literature' I am holding, but thrust it away: the opening unnerves me. So _modern._ Holy crow!

Taking a deep breath, I stand up. Blond Number Two looks at me nervously, her arms hugging herself. I wonder what she's thinking. She's not as attractive as Blond Number One, and looks admittedly younger. Perhaps she will be in my Literature class. I internally berate her for arriving at the classroom so early; silly girl, we don't have class for another hour! She frowns and eyes me, still hugging herself. She walks towards me, her high heels pounding on the sandstone floor, and she sits down on the other side of the leather chair. I feel immediately uncomfortable, since I intensely like spending time with plebs like this repulsive-yet-still-more-attractive-than-me blond bitch.

The elevator opens again, and out pours a huge group of plebs, their feet clanking against the sandstone floor, forcing me to close my eyes. There's so many people! I hate people! _Oh my!_

Most of the women who stop in front of the lecture theater are blond, and it disturbs me. Maybe brunettes didn't exist in Forks, even though I can clearly see a very short non-existent blond at the back of the crowd. I'm wondering if it's legal to allow so many blonds on campus. There's another 'African-American' man—since that's the term mom says I'm supposed to use—and I suppose he's friends with the bodyguard downstairs. He starts talking to Blond Number Two, and I clench my knuckles, hoping this crowd will disperse. He wears shorts and a baseball jersey, making me feel distressed. I definitely don't belong here. I have worn the wrong clothes. I wish Blond Number One had allowed me to walk around in my bra and panties.

I sigh, and wait what feels like five minutes. A few people pull out their required textbooks, Blond Number Two stares at the sandstone wall, I stare at Blond Number Two. Two middle-aged men chat about last week's golf.

I barely notice the gray sandstone door to the lecture theater open.

"Class, you may come in now," a man whispers by the entryway. "Do come through."

I stand up shakily, trying to suppress my nerves. Gathering up my backpack, and retrieving the copy of _Twilight _from the floor, I abandon the leather couch and make my way to the partially open door.

I push my way past my new classmates, and in my haste, stumble through, tripping over own feet and falling headfirst into the lecture theater.

Double crap—me and my two left feet! I am on my hands and knees in the doorway to the theater, and gentle arms are around me, helping me to stand. I am so embarrassed; damn my clumsiness. I have to steele—or steel?—myself to glance up. Holy crow, it's the lecturer. He's so hot! So young!

"Are you alright, Miss…?" he begins.

"Miss Swan-Steele," I respond breathlessly.

"I'm Christopher Gray-Grey," he replies. "You can call me Professor Gray-Grey," he looks up towards the rest of the class, filtering in behind klutzy old me. "Welcome to Literary Studies 101."

So young—and attractive, very attractive. _Oh my_, damn all those blonds in this class. I'll never stand a chance with Professor Gray-Grey.


	5. Chapter Four

Professor Gray-Grey's class passes incredibly slowly. I find myself unable to focus as I stare at the otherworldly, beautiful man with the stunning gray eyes, casually-styled grayish-bronze hair, and dark gray trench coat. His trousers are dark blue, so I barely notice them. His figure is amazing. His voice is alluring. I write notes and doodle pictures of the man I will be destined to fall in love with.

When the class ends, I don't even notice. A Hispanic boy whose name is probably Jose or Jorge, stops in front of me and stares. How rude! I can't even look at Professor Gray-Grey. I stand up and he shuffles uncomfortably. I grab my backpack and make my way up to the marble-stoned Adonis, or the most beautiful looking man I have ever seen.

When I arrive in front of him, Blond Number Three is standing there, flirtatiously striking up a conversation with him about colonialism in _Heart of Darkness_; frankly, it is disgusting of her! They conclude their comfortable chat and she leaves, giving me a quick, odd glance. I know I could never win against such a beautiful, vain woman.

"Miss Swan-Steele," Professor Grey-Gray asks, his voice oozing grayness. "Are you alright? Do you need to sit down?"

I turn to face him, unable to focus on anything except his beautiful, perfect face.

"Um. Actually," I murmur." If this guy is over thirty, then I'm a monkey's uncle. Which would be quite sad, because I'd probably be a very ugly looking uncle of a very attractive monkey.

In a daze, I place my hand in his, and they just stay there, my heart beating so damn loudly. As our fingers touch, I feel an odd exhilarating shiver run through me. I withdraw my hand hastily, embarrassed. Must be static. I blink rapidly, probably about seven blinks a nanosecond, my eyelids matching my heart rate. If I blink any more, I fear I might actually have to call an ambulance, and I do not want the Professor to see me in my... oh my, I'm getting ahead of myself now!

"I'm sorry," I murmur again. "I'm feeling indisposed, so I sent my hand and I hope you don't mind, Professor Grey-Gray."

He smirks at me, radiating warmness; possibly amused. I wish I could decipher his impassive expression. He looks mildly interested, but above all, polite.

"Would you like to sit?" he asks, worry flittering his otherwise undecipherable expression.

He waves me towards his L-shaped white leather couch desk chair. The chair looks too big to fit just one man; certainly not one handsome looking man like Professor Grey-Gray, who most certainly kept his figure on the upkeep.

I stare around the classroom I hadn't notice in my Professor-induced stupor. Behind the lectern are floor-to-ceiling windows that display strange icons on them—'Adobe Reader X' and 'Google Chrome', which sound oddly robotic. I recall the windows changing when he was introducing himself to the class, and sometimes it even changed to pictures of what we would be studying. I briefly wonder if he somehow has gained superhuman powers; as if Frankenstein had created him in his laboratory, turning him into some oddity of nature.

In front of the L-shaped desk chair, yet next to the lectern, there's a modern dark wood desk that six people could comfortably eat around. If I actually ate, I'd pull out a ham sandwich and start eating right now. It matches the table at the back of the theater.

Everything else is white—ceilings, floors, walls, tables, and the Professor's portable computer, which has a white picture of a half-eaten apple on it. Excluding the entrance door of course, which I didn't notice earlier, since I was busy tripping into the attractive professor. Near that door, a mosaic of small paintings hang, seven hundred and fifty-three of them arranged in a tetrahedron. They are exquisite—a series of mundane forgotten objects painted in such precise detail, they look almost like the glass windows, and are absolutely breathtaking, even the one of the flamingo eating a cup of ramen noodles, and the one of a dangling piece of flesh.

The Professor notices my staring. He gazes at them as well, murmuring; "A local photographer, Dahmer," he looks as if he is sharing an inside joke with himself.

"They're lovely. They make this room look so extraordinary," I grin back at him.

He cocks his head to one side, looking like a Border Collie. I've never seen something so breathtaking, even more so than the paintings. He's regarding me intently, as if I were one of the gorgeous paintings.

I shake my head, disturbed at the direction of my thoughts.

I'm all fingers and thumbs, and he's a marble Adonis; glittering like a stone god in the sun, all arched eyebrows and inquisitive looks, the sexy stare of a thousand Professor Grey-Gray stares. It's almost too much to bear. I flush at him and excuse myself from the lecture theater.


	6. Chapter Five

My heart is pounding. When the elevator magically whirs me back down to the sandstone first floor, I can barely scramble out of its doors fast enough, and I stumble dramatically onto the gorgeous, cleanliness is better than Godliness floor, and muse how injured my face will be—or will I end up with a gorgeous sandstone scar? But I'm kidding myself, of course. The immaculate marble floor has probably burst my spine and ruptured my appendix, and no longer will I be the acceptable looking woman that will fall in love with Professor Grey-Gray. I race for the sandstone doors, barely noticing all the blond women around me, until I'm reveling in the suddenly cool breeze, wonderfully damp air of Forks, Seattle, Arizona—I don't really know where I am anymore, and I take a deep recovering breath, trying to regain what remains of the brain space I don't actually have.

No man, woman or Phil has ever affected me the way Professor Christopher Grey-Gray has, and I have no inkling why. I allow my Inner Goddess to replay the conversation with the professor in my mind, and I stand in front of the bustling crowds of college students and blonds alike, wondering why on God's fifty shades of green earth that I'm overreacting over a man who is handsome, probably rich, dresses well for his figure, very confident, commanding, comfortable, handsome, sexy and cute? Why would I be attracted to someone like that?

Conversely, he has a lot of the traits neither John and Phil share: he's arrogant, cold, backwards, and my subconscious tells me in her grating voice that he could easily be sociopathic. On the surface. I shiver both voluntarily and involuntarily at the same time, and shake my head, disagreeing with my friends. He's allowed to be all those things. He's hot. Handsomely hot. Crooked smile, classic, Romeo Montague, Adonis, Julius Caesar HOT. He fools the suffer like me, and I wonder why I didn't have warning about this man before I started my first class, even though Rosie and countless others have told me to use the strange "UW Extra-Net" thingamabob that we're supposed to use alongside "The E-Mail" for all of our units.

Leaning against one of the stone sandstone-infused pillars that decorate the University of Washington, I am glad when I realize I'm no longer panicked over the professor, but instead… I'm strange. As my heart starts regularly beating to its circadian rhythm, I breathe an immensely sensual, shocking sigh of relief, one that is furious I wasn't told about this attractive man I feel I am destined to have the hottest romance since 2005 with, and why Blonde Number One or Blonde Number Two didn't warn me. I breathe haphazardly as I make my way to the other beauty that is John.

As I leave the stunning vista that is Forks behind, and head back to the Forks where my father and his family live, foolish embarrassment sets into my foolish, embarrassed mind. I must be the only person in the universe that is the United States of America (where we Yanks live) to have ever felt this way. I'm cruising down Interstate 5, the long route towards home, because my wind is mandering, and I shudder at my own thoughts because I imagine Professor Gray-Grey telling me in his attractive snarky-patronizing tone, and the hotness causes me to flush fifty shades of crimson in my seat, and he tells me and my subconscious: "Drive carefully, Miss Swan-Steele," and the hot strangeness of it Down There leaves me checking the speedometer to see if I'm still driving and I haven't actually teleported back into the English Literature lecture theater.

I'm usually a lunatic on the road, much to the dismay of my own VW pickup truck, but he's nothing to me today. I force myself to focus, to ignore this intriguing little experiment with the Professor, and I press down on the accelerator, the speedometer clocking over a hundred miles an hour, which is very fast for me, almost a new PB. I promise to myself I'll never go to his lectures again. I can study all the literature in my own time, and I can pass the unit. I'll even learn how to use the Inter-Net Superhighway Worldweb and, according to Rosie, I won't even need to go to classes.

I'm cheered up now. I switch on the stereo and turn the volume right up loud, sit back and listen to the calming sermons of Benny Hinn, as I press down on the accelerator even more until the speedometer I can't even see is moving higher, higher...

It was only then that I thought I heard the shattering crunch of my van hitting something, but Benny's voice had lulled me into a literal sense of security, and I'm in the air, which is nice because I'd wanted that earlier in the elevator. I watch an intensely gray Volvo hit John and it's only then I let out a scream, a short gasp of air too breathy and forgettable to be noticed—and I'm flying in the air, amazed that I am out of the car and in the air.

As I was saying, just before I heard the shattering crunch of the silver Volvo folding around my beautiful truck bed, something hit me, and I was flying, flying, not in the direction I was expecting.

A low prayer makes me aware I'm not in the air of my own doing, and I'm being held by two grayish-white hands, flown into the air; the sparkling aura of it stunning me. As I land on the ground, the two hands leave my body, and I'm on the gray asphalt of the Interstate 5, with a crowd of people around me, watching as my VW pickup truck stands there, a remnant of its former glory, a dent in the side of its body.

Professor Christopher Grey-Gray is standing in front of me.


	7. Chapter Six

It takes one absolutely still second for the silence to remain in place before the screaming begins. People from the cars behind me stop their cars too suddenly, leading to a loud explosion intermingling with the screams. All I can focus on is two long grayish-white hands, holding me and moving simultaneously, too fast for the human eye to see it, but I can see it. I stare at the hands and then back at John, wondering how I am still standing, when in reality I should be an Annabelle sandwich.

In the abrupt bedlam, I hear people shouting—perhaps my name, perhaps their loved ones piled up in the collision behind me—but I can only look at the man with the grayish hands, Professor Christopher Grey-Gray. More clearly than the sounds are the Professor whispering at me in his harsh, velvet tones.

"Miss Swan-Steele, are you alright?"

"I'm fine," I murmur back, too soft for anyone to hear. I try to move, but he's got me in an iron-hard grip, his metallic, sparkling hands holding my buttocks and keeping me in place.

I struggle to move, but he keeps me there, so I give up. Clearly, he knows more than I do.

"You should've been more careful," he says, his voice harsher, yet still warm and gooey like a Christopher-flavored chocolate bar. "I think you hit your head pretty hard."

"But I didn't..." I start.

"No, Annabelle, you hit your head," he says harshly. "Understand me: you hit your head. And, if you were mine, you wouldn't be able to sit down for a week after the stunt you pulled."

I shiver, in a sexy way.

"How did you—how did you get here so fast?" I ask instead, holding my forehead.

He looks confused, and dazzling, for a moment. His gray eyes become grayer, and I find myself more excited than concerned.

"I was driving home, right behind you, when I saw your car suddenly swerve right and crash into that Volvo. I quickly got to you when everyone else was pulling out that dead man in the Volvo."

"Oh...right," I murmur. "But why were you behind me? I thought you were still at the college?"

"Anna," he says, the gray in his eyes blazing so much they look gray, yet somehow ocher, butterscotch and gold. "Please."

"Nobody calls me Anna," I retort in my breathless murmur. "Why, Professor Grey-Gray?"

"I'll tell you in tomorrow's Lit class."

"We don't have Lit tomorrow. I have Ancient Canaanite History tomorrow."

"Please, Anna," he says anyway. "Trust me." He was pleading, but in his deep, manly voice. It was almost too intoxicating to take. He was so hot.

"Fine," I snap, my voice oozing as much anger as it could without being too loud.

He's about to say more when the EMTs leave the dead man—I see them taking him away on the stretcher—and making their way to me. I see the Professor glaring at me as the EMTs place a neck brace on me and load me into the back of the ambulance. I'm almost too embarrassed to speak, so I don't. As I'm loaded in, I notice Professor Grey-Gray make his way to the driver's seat without much resistance. The driver relegates himself to the passenger seat meekly.

I lay there, eyes open, trying to perfect my flutter, biting my lip the whole time. I liked to try and do both at the same time, to appear sexier, since Phil told me that his perfect woman would try and bite their lip and flutter their eyelashes at the same time. Someone as hot and mysterious as the Professor would have no need to find me, the boring Mary-Sue plain Jane, so I would have to work extra-hard.

Why was he so mysterious, anyway? I tried to think of a logical reason that could explain what I had just seen and heard—how had Professor Grey-Gray gotten to me so quickly? I could believe he'd been behind me, wanting to get home after a stressful day, but I couldn't help but focus on Christopher, who was now staring at me from his position in the driver's seat. He looked on, as I cringed and blushed fifty shades of red—with an expression that ranged from disapproval to fury, with no feeling of concern for me. I immediately excluded myself from the feeling I was insane.

I thought back to my poor, poor John—now just a piece of twisted metal with a mark on its side the shape of the Professor's back. I hear the paramedic announcing to the Professor that the other driver—17 year old Tyson Crow—is being taken the mortuary. The Professor's musical voice pipes up like a Vivaldi classic, demanding if I would end up like Tyson. He asks, if it would be alright, he would take me to his place, an abandoned mansion in the middle of the biggest hotel in Seattle, but the paramedic asks if we could go to my place. I am about to pipe in and say that the Professor had only known me for two hours, but neither listens to me.

"She'll be just fine if I prescribe her with some No-Doz or Tylenol," he says authoritatively. "Her fathers and step-sister will take care of her from there. I'll need to tell them that she survived. It really is quite the miracle."


	8. Chapter Seven

That night I didn't sleep well. Even after I realized I was back at my own place, I wasn't done with the crying and the eye-winking and the constant self-deprecation until just after 9:15, when I fell into a light doze. I dreamt my first dream about Christopher Grey-Gray; a dream of gray hands and eyes, and endless corridors, and a gray cloak drinking some Lady Grey tea, cackling as it turned my beautiful, beautiful car into the twisted metal he is. I woke up terrified and crying, screaming out Christopher's name. Nobody responded—my father and Ray and Rosie are used to my sleep-talking and nightmares, and my father installed a soundproof thingamabob around my room when he knew I would be moving to Forks.

It was raining outside, reflecting my bleak mood, and I wondered how I could possibly face Professor Grey-Gray while I felt like I was literally dying inside.

When I make my way down to the living room in the morning, lugging my backpack with the copy of _Twilight_ and the history textbook, the rest of the family are giving me funny looks. I'm certain I've dressed well—I've upgraded from my jacket and panties, and look acceptable in a giraffe-striped bikini and purple lace halter top. I was embarrassed about having a car crash while wearing my raincoat and flamingo panties. If I crash today, I want to see the Professor in the best wares. I consult back to my favorite book, and I know Titan would approve of my outfit choices. He looks just absolutely chic in his metal concoction. At least, now with John impounded, I still have the Titan to lust over. Unless I lust over the Professor which is... _oh, my._

"Hi, Annabelle," Rosie says, smirking as she pats at the seat next to me, offering me to sit down.

"Hi, Rosie," I reply, embarrassed, preparing myself for the inevitable Katherine-Rosalie Kavanale Inquisition. No doubt my father has told her about Christopher and the car crash. _Oh my!_

"So did you do it?" she asks immediately. Instead of looking away and reading the _Seattle Times_ or doing dad things, the men both lean in closer, almost imperceptibly.

"What?" I murmur in confusion, my lips puckering. I bite down on them, flushing a few shades of pink, red and crimson.

"Your Lit professor," she clarifies. "Your new boyfriend? Dad and Charlie told me that he drove you home from the car crash. He's so romantic!"

"What are you talking about, Rosie? I don't have a boyf—"

Rosie swoons, and I notice Charlie and Ray giving each other happy little giggles.

"Professor Christopher Grey-Gray. The eccentric billionaire. Gosh, you're so daft, Annabelle. He owns the university. _Forbes_ magazine listed him as the richest man on earth. And, OMG, I'm so jealous of you."

Dad—or CharlieRay as I like to call him—pipes in. "When he invited himself in, he said you'd hooked up at the campus, Anns."

"It's so romantic," Ray replies, and they all nod. "Saving you from a crash. Driving you here in an _ambulance_. Did you know he's a Harvard educated psychiatrist?"

I shrug. How would I know he's a psychiatrist? I don't understand how they know all of this information about the Professor, when all I know is that he's hotter than Adonis, Jesus Christ and Titan combined, and his gray eyes hide a secret shrouded in secrets shrouded in even more secrets.

"You like him though?" she asks, her Katherine-Rosalie Kavanale Inquisition increasing fifty-shades-of-grey-fold.

I blush beetroot red. "Yes."

"Like him enough to…?"

"Yes," I admit, blushing so furiously I could have a Christopher Grey-Gray induced heart attack.

Rosie furrows her eyebrows. "I hear he has a brother. Ellimett. You totally need to hook us up. There's a party tonight."

"Oh, sure. After I've studied."

I leave the group of them, now back to talking, and make my way outside before I realize that I don't have my gorgeous car to drive anymore. Fear overtakes me until I notice the ambulance parked in the driveway, with a ribbon that matches my blush covering it. There is a note by the driver's window, a gray note with slightly darker writing. I almost slip over, and realize for the first time that I'm incredibly clumsy and imperfect and fragile and human, and snatch the note from the window as my buttocks hit the snow. The pain is incredibly sexual, and I wonder if that's what it would feel like if Christopher slapped me fifty shades into tomorrow.

The note is in incredibly cursive writing, so old fashioned it's in Cuneiform. Luckily, I studied ancient civilizations back when I was in twelfth grade back on the reservation in Arizona, so I can read what he's saying. The font is gray.

Translated, it says: Here is a car for you, Anna. If you accept this car, you will submit to everything I say after this point. Laters, baby.

I place it in my bikini for safekeeping and get inside the ambulance, leaving the blush-induced-ribbon on. I decide to name the car Fifty, so it will remind me of my new boyfriend. I turn on the radio, which announces it is playing a song by some fifty cent coins called _Get Rich or Die Tryin'_. I shrug, saying aloud I wished it played something which sounded like Christopher's beautiful voice.

It immediately switches to a song by Henry Hall—it's my favorite; Here Comes the Boogeyman. I start humming along, driving to school, wondering if the Professor will be there.


	9. Chapter Eight

My day at the University of Forks was better…but worse.

It was better because it wasn't raining anymore, though the clouds were dense and gray, the same color as Christopher's eyes, the streaks in his hair and hands. It was easier because I was studying the Ancient Canaanites and I'd read about them in the Bible, but not in the Book of Mormon, and I'd studied them in the same unit Phil taught me where I'd also learned Cuneiform. I befriended a Native American or Latino boy called Jason who looked a lot like Jose/Jorge, and could easily pass off as him. The boy was like a lost puppy dog chess player, and he told me his primary interest was photography while howling at the moon. He wasn't as hot as Christopher.

It was worse because I was tired, and still relying on thirteen hours of sleep; dreaming my dreams of grey windowless windows and a thesaurus with words that actually matched the words I used to their dictionary meaning. It was worse because I got told off by Professor Lee for criticizing his interpretation of Canaanites. It was worse because I forgot I didn't have Lit today and I didn't see Professor Christopher Grey-Gray.

I make my way out of the class in a listless bore, unable to focus on anyone, even though I'm certain I'm being followed out of the classroom by all the men in the class. I am vaguely aware of Jason telling me about having his babies and falling in love with them, but I'm thinking about driving Fifty over to the local hardware store and purchasing some cooking supplies. Much like my mother, I was an imaginative cook, and my food wasn't always edible. I usually shopped in the bondage section to create my best meals. It always attracted funny looks, but the food was divine. It was my secret to being fifty shades of thin, in order to attract Chicago-born vampires.

When I get to the parking lot, I head to the parking bay to find the ambulance gone. Where is it? _Oh my_…instead, there's an Audi with a Volvo tag on it, but I know it's an Audi because my poor, poor old car used to be part-Audi. In fact, almost every car in the parking lot is an Audi, except for the car with the Volvo tag, so it's shiny and stands out.

I look around to see if Jason and the others are there, but all I can see is his dark-skinned, muscly back, and the long black hair I hope he will cut soon. When I look back, Christopher Grey-Gray is in the Volvo-Audi.

I gasp. _Oh, my._

He holds his hand out at me and I blush redder than the color red itself. I bite my lip to stop myself blushing. Christopher will think I have problems.

I get into the passenger's seat, calming when I hear _Maid with the Flaxen Hair_ playing on the stereo. The Professor starts up the engine, scowling the whole time, his expression still as indecipherable as ever. It was maddening.

"Where's my car?" I ask in my softest voice.

He reverses the Volvo, his eyes as gray as ever as he stares quickly at the road. It's one of the most beautiful looks I have ever seen in my eighteen years of life. I have never felt this way in my life, except maybe with Phil or my poor, blundering John.

As we head out of the parking lot, his eyes turn back to me. We're driving much faster than I have ever driven, and I bite my lips in fear.

"What? Are you speaking to me again?" he asks, his voice sounding almost exactly the same as the Richard Stoltzman classic on the stereo; an endearing, entrancing melody.

"Please, Professor Grey-Gray."

"Call me…Mr. Grey-Gray," he says, his voice entrancing, tracing my knuckles, making me feel all funny Down There. "I have allowed my bodyguard, Trainor, to take your junker home. You won't be needing it where we're going."

"Mr Grey-Gray," I murmur, twitching nervously. "Why does my family think we are dating?"

"Full of questions, Annabelle," he smirks, cocking his head to one side like a Pomeranian, his eyes flashing battleship gray and slate. "We are dating."

"Oh, we are," I whisper, staring deeply into those eyes. They are so entrancing, so angelic. "But I can't go out with you. I have studying to do. Um, my friend has a party."

The Professor grins wickedly, and tickles my fingers so I'm barely able to breathe. My mouth opens, an O, the same word my mom used to say would happen when she used to play under the bed with her husbands.

"Her party is not until seven, Miss Swan-Steele," he grins wickedly again. I'm out of descriptions. "We have plenty of time."

"But…what about yesterday?" I say desperately. "The crash and the fast hands and everything," my voice falters as his face turns that cadet gray, gorgeous first shade of gray color.

He leans forward and pulls his note out of my bikini, smirking his crooked smile the whole time. He isn't holding the wheel anymore. He opens the note, reading it aloud, voice clicking the whole time.

"Miss Swan-Steele," he says seriously, with a dash of indecipherableness imprinted onto his gorgeous Greek-god features. "I like control. You are mine now. I own you."

I nod back. "Where are we going?" I murmur in my daze.

He grips my thigh, and squeezes it once.

"Wherever I want."

It is the sexiest voice in the world. And I am his now.


	10. Chapter Nine

_Heart failure_.

That's the first thought on my mind as Christopher drives us down the I-5. His lips part for no reason, showing perfectly white, bright Kleenex-colored teeth. It's so erotic, and I have to smile back at him. In response, he smiles his crooked smile at me, blinking, and the Earth shifts slightly on its axis, the tectonic plates shifting into a new position. We spend the whole trip down into downtown Seattle just staring at each other, and I've turned about one hundred and fifty shades of red in the process.

True to form, or what I previously told you in Chapter Six, he does live in a mansion in the biggest hotel in Washington State. _The Christopher_ is nestled in the downtown of Portland, but whether that's Portland in Washington or Portland in Oregon, I wouldn't be able to tell you. My grip on geography isn't as firm as Mr. Grey-Gray's grip on me. Its impressive brownstone edifice was completed just before the Great Depression hit hard, and since it was built for rising entrepreneurs, many used the forty-story building to end their lives, including namesake Christopher Masen. Don't tell me how I know all this. I just do.

Mr. Grey-Gray speeds into the front entrance, and stops so abruptly, I smash through the windshield and onto the asphalt. Luckily, a man whom I observe with faux-omniscience is the bodyguard Trainor, catches me easily. _Holy crap_, I could be clumsy!

He lets me down and right into the arms of Mr. Grey-Gray, where _oh my_, I notice his clothing for the first time. He's wearing a white shirt, open at the collar in _this _way, and gray flannel pants that hang from his hips in _that _way. I want to jump at him right now, claw the rest of the buttons off him, and then...well, I don't know what to do. Quadruple crap! _He's so freaking hot!_

Only then do I notice Trainor, rubbing his buzz-cut hair, trying to get our attention, but Mr. Grey-Gray waves him off, grabs me by the hand and leads us into The Christopher. Trainor stands there impassively, but his chilling hazel eyes follow us all the way into the hotel.

Once inside, I'm in awe. Sure, Rosie and Ray Kavanale are of old-time money, but this is way more than I'm used to. Rosie went to the best private school in the United States, got the house in Forks for free thanks to Ray's offshore bank accounts, but she could never, ever consider living in a place like this. The Cheshire Cat grin spreads over my face until I flush blood spatter red, and I realize the Professor's impassive, concerned stare is directed towards my face. The place is completely gray steel, except for the elevators which are everywhere, which are colored pale Payne's gray.

He leads me into the elevator, and I'm suddenly irritated by the indecipherable look on his face. What is he thinking? Where is he taking me? The blush fades away into a more comfortable flesh color.

I surreptitiously gaze at him beneath my lashes, a look I have perfected so it doesn't appear as if I'm staring at him in a dazed, constantly blinking way. Once or twice, he runs long, piano-playing fingers through his messy hair, and I drink in his beauty like I'd drink a fine bottle of chardonnay. _Hmm...I'd like to do that_, I think dumbly.

"Penny for your thoughts?" he asks, piping up like a remixed version of _Symphony No. 9_.

The blush reappears, as Cherry Coke as ever. I shake my head.

"Who was he?" the Professor asks, staring right through me.

"Who?" I murmur.

"The boy who was with you just before. The Native American or Latino boy." He scowls, and his eyes turn a dark shade of gray; the color of a thousand Mr. Grey-Gray thunderstorms.

"Oh, him," I squeak softly. "Jason. I _think_? He's in my History class. I just met him today."

"And the man sitting next to you in yesterday's class?" he's inquisitive, but never as tenacious as the tenacious Rosie Kavanale.

"I don't know," I admit sheepishly.

"You. Are. Mine," he says each word slowly, wrapping them around syllable by syllable, even though each word is only one syllable. His tongue caresses _mine_, and Down There starts tingling.

I nod at him, looking at his pants just hanging there. The tingling prickles even more. My Inner Goddess is riding her bucking bronco, giving me the thumbs-up.

"Tell me what you're thinking," he whispers darkly. "You are such a mystery, Annabelle."

Am I? Wow... how am I managing that? This is bewildering. Me, mysterious? No way. He must be talking at Rosie, even though he's never met her. Or has he? He's met my father and stepfather. Why not her?

"Except when you blush, of course, which is often," he continues acidly. "I just wish I knew what you were blushing about."

_You!_ I want to scream, but I don't. I just blush about every shade of red under the sun, and smile weakly at him.

He moves closer to me, and I can't contain my blush anymore; it's intensifying. Our bodies are sparking each other, and I feel as if I'm vibrating from the feeling. He's not even gripping my hand anymore. I resist the urge to moan as the electricity increases, and we just stare at each other. _Concentrate, Swan-Steele._

I need to get away. I need to focus. But he's closed the elevator door and we're not going anywhere. I don't even know how to work an elevator, especially one like this which seems to have intoxicating powers. I turn back to him, defeated, and wait for him to ask me my life story.


	11. Chapter Ten

Trainor greets us when the elevator door springs open to life—he looks terribly nervous, for some strange reason, and it must be because of Christopher's electric presence. I'm not really focused on Trainor anymore, since Christopher is in my immediate vicinity and eyesight.

_Holy birds and a bucket of crap! _He's wearing a white shirt, open at the collar, and gray flannel pants that grab from his hips at every which way. I know I noticed it like last chapter, but to me his appearance changes every time I focus in on his intoxicating, Christopher-like appearance. My mouth goes dry looking at him – he's so freaking hot, even though his mouth moves ridiculously fast and furiously out of something that remotely resembles anger, despite his usually impassive face.

At least I'm no longer wishing I could get back into that elevator, amazing piece of magic that it is. They're talking in low, urgent murmurs; Christopher's voice sounding like melted honey and velvet and the clinking of Veuve Clicquot champagne in bone china glass, and Trainor just sounds like a gruff buzz-cut. After a while, their voices become less urgent, less low, and I'm no longer distracted by it all. I look up at Christopher expectantly, through my lashes, trying to look as seductive as my Inner Goddess, looking all sexy in her lingerie on her chaise lounge, would want me to look. She doesn't look very sexy at the moment, since she's in a heated debate with my Subconscious. I'm glad Unconscious isn't in this fight at the moment; she's simply out of it, my best friend in armor, my _lone Titan_.

When Trainor vanishes from my eyes without a glance, Christopher turns to face me, his absurdly handsome eyebrow raised in a line of confusion.

"What is it about elevators?" he mutters, and I look away from it finally, blushing crimson scarlet with embarrassment.

I surreptitiously gaze up at him from beneath my lashes again—my lashes, which are nowhere near as Adonis-like as Christopher's Greek God ones. Once or twice, he runs his long, _Clair de Lune_ playing fingers throughout his dazzling, magnificent bronze-gray hair, and I murmur unintelligibly to myself, and from Christopher's way, his luscious lips emit a low, intelligent laugh. I bite my lip and stare down at my forgettable fingers, not liking where my thoughts are headed.

"You shouldn't bite your lips until I tell you," Christopher says, smirking his Jesus-Christ-he's-so-hot smirk. It's deceptively dark.

I go even more crimson than even, I can't even remember what my regular skin color is. Not ivory, definitely, that would make me memorable. Not dark, since I would look like Jason or Jose or Jeremiah. Something, something…

"You're a mystery, Miss Swan-Steele," he murmurs, deftly placing me into a state of inexorable shock. My knowledge of synonyms are all over the joint.

"You…unnerve me," I mutter, at a loss for words, even more so than usual.

"You _should _find me unnerving," his whispers, nodding his head like a Beagle. "You're honest, I like that. Don't blush as often, Annabelle," he warns. "I like to see your face. You're a mystery to me."

"Mystery?"

"I think you're very vacant and barren."

I blush again, almost turning from red into a shade of gray. "Oh, thank you."

"Don't thank _me_," he warns again, his voice lower than low again, like with Trainor. "You should be thanking your friend…Rosie, is it?"

He rubs a hand through his hand vigorously, his eyebrows knitted into something resembling anger, and yet again, I wish I could decipher his mood. It's unbearable, especially when he seems to know _everything _about me!

"Is that what you were talking about before?" I whisper leaning closer to him, but he flinches, annoyance briefly crossing his gorgeous features, making him look all the more breathtaking and unbelievably Adonis.

He smirks. No one else watches me the way he does. I'm utterly chagrined.

"There's a party in an hour," he finally admits. "Trainor's telling me Kavanale has been texting and calling you ever since we left the parking lot."

"Do you have a multiple personality disorder?" I ask dumbly as a way of lightening the humor.

"You're blushing again, Annabelle," he murmurs, but an indecipherable sound in his voice seems to have provoked him out of the ballpark. "Your graduation party?"

"Oh, my," I murmur, opening my mouth in an 'O' of shock. "I completely forgot. Rosie's going to hate me irrevocably."

He grabs my hand urgently, seductively until I'm all but his. I stare into his ocher, hazel, gray, gray eyes, and I'm completely mesmerized. I've known nothing except Christopher my whole life, for nothing else matters, especially not Rosie Kavanale.

Christopher looks away from me, a deep urgency appearing in his eyes.

"We have to go, don't we?" I ask, fear clenching and tightening deep into my throat. _I don't want to go_. Please don't make me go. I feel like the toddler that I must inexorably be, forced into a party I never ever wanted, needed, to go to.

I don't see it, but my Subconscious, quick from her fight, notices his quick, tight nod. I'm appeased, relieved, pardoned, but only temporarily.

His eyes shine again, every color of the rainbow—but for the purposes of this story,every color of the rainbow if it was a gray Christopher Gray-Grey colored rainbow—and I'm his.

"Oh, fuck the party!" he growls to the heavens, and then his mouth is on mine, the mouth of a thousand Christopher Gray-Grey's, since his mouth is on mine and Oh, My, there's no way I can think in any decent, non-erotic way now.

Oh, my. Holy crap, he's _mine_! To be literal, his lips are on mine, soft, velvet puddles of Adonis glory on me, and my inexperienced lips don't know a thing about kissing, but they do now.

He lunges at me, wrapping his hands around me as if I were a graduation present. I have never been kissed like this. I have never been kissed.

Our lips merge in an erotic dance, slow and tentative, building to the O-Word my mother and Bob and Phil used to say they were building to when they hung out together in their meadow; my meadow.

This is my meadow. I feel a thousand sparkles emanate from his lips and meet mine like a disco ball or a vampire from a sparkly rom-com.

"Oh, Annabelle Swan-Steele, what am I going to do with you?"

He's now leading me back into the elevator as we continue to kiss but moving; what's that?

"What is it about elevators?" he repeats. He glides, basically super-speeds us back down the elevator and out of the Christopher.

We're heading to the party, but I'm all but a goner now. I've always been.


End file.
